Come bind my hair, ye woodnymphs fair,With ivy wreaths, come bind my brow.Hence grief and woe and pain and care,To Bacchus I'll devote my vows.Dull cynic rules are fit for schools;Let those digest the food who can;But love and wine shall still be mineOh let me laugh out all my span.No wounds, O love, e'er let me feel,But such as spring from eyes and shapes;A curse on those that come by steel,I hate all blood but blood of grapes.Then fill up high the bowl That I may drink and laugh at fools of sense;Why need we fear to want next year'Twill be all one an hundred hence.